


domesticity, an in-depth study by Quentin Coldwater

by Nemainofthewater



Series: plausible deniability [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Domesticity, Don't copy to another site, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-01-16 08:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18518176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Moments in Eliot and Quentin's lives, where the most drama is Quentin getting involved in shipping wars on the internet. Fourth in the Plausible Deniability series. It'll make more sense if you read the first one, but can stand alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PanBoleyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/gifts).



> Thanks to PanBoleyn who had a ridiculously lovely conversation with me in the comments and inspired most of these scenes

“Really? Really? I thought that Todd was my friend! I thought he was a good guy. I can’t believe he betrayed me like this.”

 

Quentin, Eliot notes, it extremely cute when he rants.

 

“Well that’s your problem Q,” he says, “You had faith in Todd.”

 

He pats the couch beside him invitingly, and Quentin collapses onto it, blowing irritably at his floppy hair.

 

“Just,” he says, “Todd spent the entire day with Fen and Fray. He should know better than to contribute to…this _travesty_.”

 

“While I agree that Todd ought to have more taste than to produce a Fillory tv series, surely it isn’t that bad?”

 

Quentin stares at him, betrayed.

 

“How could you say that?” he whispers, “He completely cut Rupert out as a character! And now Jane and Martin have this weird incest-y sexual tension.”

 

“That was a bit much, but I really don’t think it’s as bad as all that...” Eliot says, then stops. Quentin is ignoring him, concentrating on his computer and typing fiercely, each stroke a death blow to the romantic evening Eliot had planned.

 

“You’re getting into another flame war, aren’t you,” Eliot sighs.

 

“FillorianFan97 is going down for sure this time,” Quentin replies, not looking up from his screen.

 

“Oh Q,” Eliot says, “You’ve made a classic blunder, the most famous of which is ‘never get involved in a land war in Asia,’ but only slightly less-well known is never get engaged in shipping wars on the internet.”

 

Quentin doesn’t react.

 

Eliot groans.

 

“Fine! I give up. You win.”

 

He settles himself next to Quentin, and peers down at the screen.

 

“Now,” he says, “What idiotic opinion has FillorianFan97 espoused this time?”

Three months later, when Eliot is beta-ing Quentin’s Yuletide fic he realises that he maybe should have nipped that in the bud while he had the chance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin go to an engagement party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on my phone on the plane to Chicago so may be a bit incoherent.  
> This takes place a while after Quentin gets back, probs 6 months to a year.

“This was a mistake,” Eliot says, staring up at the building. It’s a nice building, modern, sleek. The epitome of modern city living. Margo and Josh have the penthouse suite of course. Margo at least would accept nothing less. 

 

(Why she needs a New York residence when she and Josh spend most of their time in Fillory, he has no idea but he isn’t going to argue. What Bambi wants, Bambi deserves to get.)

 

“Come on El, it’s not going to be that bad,”Quentin says, tugging him along by the hand and rather ruining the clean lines of his suit. “It’ll be nice to see the others at least.”

 

“What is this?” Eliot asks, “Quentin Coldwater advocating for a social situation?”

 

Quentin snorts. “Hardly,” he says, “But Josh has put a lot of effort into this. And you know that he wants to impress you.”

 

“As he ought to. Especially if Margo wants to continue her ridiculous plan of marrying him.”

 

Eliot sighs. Margo and Josh Hoberman. Who could have seen that coming? More and more he feels like he’s slipped sideways into some sort of parallel universe since waking up. 

 

“In any case,” he continues grudgingly, “If Margo’s chosen to spend her life with the idiot then there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Not that I would. Well. At least the food’s going to be good.”

 

Quentin laughs. 

 

“I can’t believe how grumpy you are,” he says, turning around to face him as they get into the elevator. 

 

“Yes well,” Eliot says, “I have spent a significant portion of my life as a grumpy old man, loath as I am to admit it. I don’t see why I should have to stop now.”

 

He sours slightly, looking down at his cane. 

 

“In any case,” he says, “I do seem to be playing the part.”

 

Quentin rolls his eyes. “You’re just fishing for compliments,” he says, “You love that cane. You enjoy hitting people with it.”

 

“That is one of my few pleasures in life,” Eliot agreed, “But Q... I don’twant you to waste your life looking after me. Not when you could be out there doing amazing things. Helping Alice revolutionise the Library, or writing the new Constitution with Fen.”

 

“You’re such an idiot El. I’ve had all my excitement. I’ve literally been on a Quest, killed a God, and escaped the Underworld. I don’t need any more excitement. Anyway: who says I’m looking after you? You’re the one doing all the cooking.”

 

“Because your idea of seasoning is adding an ounce of salt!” Eliot says. 

 

He’s smiling. Because... it’s stupid but sometimes it feels like he needs to have permission to be happy. He has to check that Quentin isn’t staying with him out of some idiotic misplaced sense of duty. 

 

Quentin is staring straight into his eyes. 

 

“Hey,” he says, “I know that things are changing. But... that doesn’t mean that we aren’t all going to be there for you El. You’re not getting left behind, ok? Because if soulmates really do exist, then you and Margo are definitely soulmates.”

 

Eliot raises a hand to brush against Quentin’s cheek. After the Monster, they’ve had to relearn how to be comfortable around each other. But they’re here now. And they’re both alive, unpossessed, and in the same dimension for once. 

 

“Anyway,” Quentin continues, slightly unsteady as he leans into the touch, “I’m still legally dead. It’s like I could actually go anywhere.”

 

Eliot pouts. “I think you’ll find,” he says, “That one of the first things I did was get you fake papers.”

 

“You called me Quillian Clearwater! The least imaginative name possible. There’s no way anyone’s not going to know it’s me.”

 

“I needed an excuse to call you Q. Anyway, we can change your last name easily enough.”

 

“What are you saying-“

 

“Shhh.”

 

Eliot leans in for a gentle kiss and-

 

“Come on guys! Get a room.”

 

Eliot draws back and gives a silent huff of laughter. 

 

“You’re one to talk Josh,” Quentin says without looking away from Eliot, “I’m pretty sure you’ve mentally scarred half the palace staff by now.”

 

“What can I say. They’re wimps.”

 

Eliot does move away, reluctantly, when he hears Margo’s voice. 

 

“To be continued,” he says to Quentin. Then-

 

“Bambi!” He sweeps dramatically out of the elevator and embraces her. Margo squeezes him back, carefully avoiding his still tender side. 

 

“El,” she says into his ear, “I’m so glad you came.”

 

“Well,” Eliot says, “I couldn’t leave you without the support of your best man. I’ve seen what Josh considers fashion: your wedding would be a disaster without me.”

 

He pauses. 

 

“Also,” he says, “I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see you happy Margo. Because god knows you deserve it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot vs mac and cheese

“Oh god. No. Quentin. How could you do this to me.”

 

Quentin looks up from his food, eyebrow quirked. 

 

“What?” He asks after swallowing his mouthful of food, “It’s good.”

 

Eliot shakes his head mournfully. What Quentin is erroneously calling ‘good’ is a bright orange bowl of Krafts Mac and cheese with-Eliot peers closer- sliced hotdog sausages. 

 

“No wonder you have such a bad palate. Growing up eating that crap.”

 

Quentin shrugs, unconcerned. Stares directly at Eliot as he takes another large bite. 

 

“You’re the one who told me I couldn't cook anymore.”

 

Quentin, while many things, was not a good cook. He tried, he really really tried. In the Mosaic timeline Eliot has countless memories of Quentin’s hopeful face offering him a bowl of watery, over-salted stew that he and Arielle would have to choke down. Since they started living together Eliot put his foot down: in a country where a) Eliot was happy to cook (desperate to cook a lot of the time of the time for the sake of everyone’s taste buds) and b) takeaways were a thing Quentin had no reason to make food. Ever again. 

 

“And evidentially I was right to if this is your idea of a meal!” Eliot is pacing back and forth now, gesticulating wildly with his cane to emphasise his point. 

 

“I didn’t want you to have to make dinner,” Quentin says, “Not now that school’s started up again.”

 

Because Eliot is going to school again. Not Brakebills as Henry had graduated their whole group (muttering something about how if he ever had to see their faces again it would be too soon). But... Julia had suggested sommelier training, maybe partly in jest, and Margo had latched on tothe idea with an intensity that surprised them all.

 

(“I just don’t want you moping around that apartment all day El, it isn’t healthy!”)

 

So twice a week Eliot attends class at the New York Wine School. He’s actually taking a load of the food science modules as well, and he’s pretty sure that the next time he tries to make Fillorian champagne he might not be so unsuccessful. 

 

He’s not the only one at school either: Quentin, with his own school transcripts and a fake ID, has managed to get into a masters programme at Colombia, although he’s doing a lot of his studying long distance. 

 

“Quentin,” Eliot says, “It is never an imposition for me to make us food. Never. Anyway my professors would probably fail me if they saw me eating that junk.”

 

“Don’t knock it til you try it,” Quentin says, holding out a forkful of mush out invitingly. He looks hopefully up at Eliot. 

 

Shit. What should he do? Oh god he’s going to have to eat it. Eliot steels himself, and leans forward...

 

Quentin bursts out laughing. 

 

“Oh my god you were actually going to do it!” he crows. 

 

Eliot narrows his eyes. 

 

“Not. Funny.”

 

“Pretty funny,” Quentin corrects. He laughs. 

 

“Look, I know you’re totally into cerviche this and emulsion that but sometimes I just need processed American cheese, yeah?”

 

Eliot groans. “I can accept that you need comfort food,” he allows, “But I am not allowing you to poison your body with  that . And yes, I appreciate the irony in me saying it.”

 

Quentin laughs and looks down at his bowl. 

 

“I know it’s not the healthiest. But it’s what my dad used to make for me as a kid. He wasn’t that great at cooking, but he’d try you know? Whenever it was just the two of us, he’d make me mac and cheese and I’d be in charge of cutting up the hotdog sausages and then we’d just eat our food in front of the television together and watch Ladyhawke.”

 

“Fuck,” says Eliot helplessly, “That’s adorable.”

 

He spins around and picks up his discarded coat. 

 

“El?” Quentin asks uncertainly. 

 

“Get your coat Q, we’re going to Whole Foods. And then I’m going to make you mac and cheese so good that it’ll blow your tiny, tragically unadventurous mind.”

 

He smirks. 

 

“I’ll even let you cut up the sausages.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has a bad day. Eliot helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/comfort. That stupid song from the finale keeps popping into my head and making me sad.

It’s been a bad day. Eliot is at the point where the bad days are starting to be outnumbered by the good ones, but that doesn’t mean that everything is all sparkles and rainbows. 

 

“Hey,” he says to the small blanket covered lump that is Quentin, “I’m going to get you something to eat. Any requests?”

 

A grunt. Eliot waits, but nothing else is forthcoming. That’s fine. 

 

He leaves the bedroom and shuffles his way to the kitchen, and reaches up to grab the pack of cheap, sugary cereal that Quentin likes and that he would like to incinerate. But... it’s better than nothing. And it’s simple for him to make up: Quentin won’t feel bad if he can’t finish it. 

 

He sets out the milk and a bowl onto a tray and, after a moment of hesitation, pours a glass of orange juice as well. 

 

Carrying the whole thing in to the bedroom, he sets in on the side and sinks back into bed with a groan. He’s able to walk short distances without his cane, but that doesn’t mean that his body is happy about it. According to his physical therapist he should eventually heal well enough not to need it, but t could take months or even years of physical therapy. Apparently there was something weird about the wound that was making it heal slowly. Go figure. 

 

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Quentin’s head. 

 

“I have breakfast if you want it,” he says, “No rush though. We have definitely earned the right to lie in bed all day if we do so desire.”

 

Quentin does twitch at that, slowly rolling over to face Eliot. His hair is musssd and tangled on one side and he looks exhausted. 

 

“Thank you,” he says, “For the food. But... I think I’m just going to lie here for a bit.”

 

“Fine by me,” Eliot says. 

 

Quentin smiles up at him, but it’s a pained, small thing. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I thought I’d be...” he trails off but Eliot hears the unspoken  better by now . 

 

Eliot’s heart breaks. 

 

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, as steadily as he can manage. 

 

“Just...stay?”

 

Eliot draws him into a hug. 

 

“Always.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is betrayed. Betrayed!! (And maybe just a touch over dramatic)

“Eliot!” Quentin says, bursting into the room, “You need to come with me right now.”

 

Eliot looks up, glasses sliding down his nose (and god he can’t believe that he’s descended this far to wearing his reading glasses in public. He blames Quentin who was extremely annoying and wouldn’t let him squint at the menus at restaurants because he was ‘ruining his eyesight’)

 

“What’s the matter?” He asks. The first few times Quentin did this, he had sprung up instantly, heart pounding in his chest, battle magic ready and waiting at his fingers. 

 

(He might have blown up a few street lamps. Accidentally! And a homophobic neighbour’s car. Less accidentally.)

 

But after five or six times of being dragged out onto the street to look at a particularly cute puppy, he’s getting pretty desensitised to it all. 

 

“Fen needs you to get to Fillory immediately,” and oh shit this might actually be a big deal. 

 

“What’s happened?” Eliot stands up, his chair careening backward with a screech. 

 

“Is she all right? Where are Josh and Margo?”

 

They’re meant to be picking out linens this weekend, but he is certain that they would be Fen’s first call. If she’s asking him for help that means that she hasn’t been ablecontact either of them, or she has and something has gone wrong. 

 

Quentin’s face twists. 

 

“Oh no. No El, it’s not a big world ending emergency. Just like maybe a moderate one. That only you can fix.”

 

Eliot breathes in and out slowly. In count to four. Out count to seven. In count to four. Out count to seven. 

 

When he’s calmed down, he asks: “Is the emergency Fen wants to surprise me with something in Fillory and asked you to get me there?”

 

“Erm,” Quentin looks sheepish, “Maybe?”

 

“I- ok. Sure. Let me get changed and then we can go together. I don’t suppose you’re allowed to tell me what it is?”

 

Quentin shakes his head. 

 

“Margo threatened to hunt me down and turn my balls into a clutch purse if I told,” he says apologetically. He pauses. Looks at what Eliot is wearing. 

 

And ok, so he’s in his soft sleep pants and one of Quentin’s hoodies. So what? It’s the weekend and they weren’t planning on going anywhere. 

 

(Past him would have been horrified. Past him also has poor judgement so last him can just fuck off)

 

“Yeah...” Quentin says, “You er. Probably should get changed. Maybe something fancy.”

 

“Fancy, hmm? And I’m still not allowed to know what’s going on?”

 

“Sorry, El. Margo is a lot scarier than you are.”

 

“And is there any reason that she doesn’t want me to know?”

 

Quentin laughs at him and points to the bedroom.

 

“The sooner you get dressed, the sooner you’ll find out!”

 

Later, standing on a podium listening to Fen make a cheerful address about the opening of the Eliot Waugh School of Agriculture, and firmly sandwiched between Margo and Quentin to stop him escaping, he feel utterly betrayed. 

 

“Who knew you could be this cruel?” he mutters out the side of his mouth. 

 

“Oh hush El,” Margo says, “It means a lot to her. And you did revolutionise farming in Fillory. I can’t think of anyone better to be memorialised.”

 

There’s a flourish and a large, bronze statue of him is unveiled. There’s a bag of shit and by his feet and he’s holding a plough. 

 

“I hate you both so much.”

 

“No you don’t,” says Quentin. 

 

“No I don’t,” he agrees resignedly, and, obeying Fen’s enthusiastic beckoning, walks forward to make his speech. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a blanket fort is constructed.

“Julia. How nice to see you. What...?”

 

Eliot trails off. In his defence he wasn’t expecting to be playing host to a goddess. Especially one hidden behind what’s potentially the entire contents of her linen closet, sheets, pillows and blankets piled high in her arms. 

 

“Hey Eliot,” she says, only slightly muffled by the bedding, “Can I come in?”

 

Eliot steps to the side, and Julia pushes her way past him. She must be using some sort of magic to stop everything toppling out of her arms. 

 

Julia dumps her cargo on their couch. “Has Q got back yet?” she asks. 

 

“No he’s still out at the shops,” Eliot replies. 

 

Julia purses her lips disapprovingly. “He was meant to have finished getting the snacks by now,” she says, “Never mind. You can help out instead.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, “But what are we doing exactly?”

 

Julia blinks at him. “Quentin didn’t tell you? We’re making a blanket fort. So that we can marathon all the Marvel movies before Endgame comes out next week.”

 

“I- of course we are.”

 

He should have guessed. Quentin had looked especially smug this morning, and not in his usual ‘I just came. Twice!’ way. No, it was furtive. Secretive. Almost... diabolical. 

 

They grow up so fast. 

 

“I can’t say that I’ve ever constructed a blanket fort before,” Eliot says, “But after ruling a kingdom, how hard can it be?”

 

An hour later, and looking at the tangled mess of blankets on the floor, Eliot is forced to admit: “Of course I wasn’t a very good king. What with being deposed and all that.”

 

“It can’t be that hard,” Julia says with a frazzled air, “We did this as six year olds.”

 

“For two of you,” Eliot says, “Not the nine grown adults expected to descend upon us. Not unless there’s something you’ve not told me about your childhood.”

 

Eliot takes his phone from his pocket. Types into it. 

 

“What are you doing?” Julia asks.

 

“Calling reinforcements.”

 

Josh arrives ten minutes later bearing Tupperwares full of canapés and a Trader Joes shopping bag filled with unpopped popcorn kernels. 

 

“What?” he says defensively, “All the Marvel movies together are like 48 hours straight. I’ve come prepared.”

 

“Now. Show me to your blanket fort!”

 

With Josh’s help they manage to finally suspend the sheets from the ceiling without them falling down (and without magic, although with a LOT of duct tape). 

 

It’s actually pretty nice: the billowing fabric reminds him of a luxurious tent (especially once he’d taken the opportunity to spell them a deep, dusky blue) and the fairy lights Josh strings up everywhere makes it look a bit like the night sky. 

 

(Josh insists the lights are for ambience. Eliot resigns himself to pointedly ignoring Margo, Fen, and Josh for the entirety of the viewing experience)

 

He isn’t entirely sure how they’re going to get everything down again, and is mentally resigning himself to having a permanent blanket fort in their living room. 

 

But it doesn’t matter. Because Quentin comes in, staggering under five packs of Costco chicken wings, and his eyes go wide. 

 

“Oh my god guys,” he says, “It’s perfect.”

 

“Hurry up Coldwater,” Penny’s voice snaps behind him, and then Penny staggers in with what must be the entirety of Costco’s frozen pizza section. 

 

Eliot raises an eyebrow at him. 

 

“This hasn’t got anything to do with any altruistic shit,” he says, “I just know that as the only Traveller, exactly who’s going to be sent out for snack duty.”

 

“Evidentially someone hasn’t heard of Uber Eats,” Eliot says in a sotto voice. He’s pretty sure that the only thing that keeps him from being killed (or lightly maimed) is the fact that Margo and Fen enter with at least two dozen pints of ice cream. 

 

“Not bad,” Margo says, looking around approvingly. 

 

“This is my first sleepover!” Fen says, bouncing in place, “I can’t wait. Do we have the ritual pillow fight before or after we consume the ice cream?”

 

“We’re not having a pillow fight,” Kady says, striding in, Alice just behind her, “Because I’d decimate you all.”

 

“What did you guys bring?” Quentin says hastily before Margo can say anything, or Fen can take her dagger out. 

 

(They have so many holes in the wall from Fens enthusiastic dagger throwing that they’re never getting their deposit back)

 

“The most important bit,” Kady says, “I brought the DVDs.”

 

“And I brought a projector,” Alice says, holding it up. “I made some... minor adjustments to it.”

 

“Minor?” Julia asks. 

 

Alice smirks. “Let’s say that the surround sound is to die for.”

 

“Nice,” says Josh, nodding his head. 

 

“Shall we get started then?” Eliot asks. 

 

“Everyone grab a pillow and get comfortable!” Quentin says, following his own advice and snagging the two most comfortable out of the pillow pile. 

 

“I hope one of those is for me,” Eliot murmurs. 

 

Quentin glances up at him through his fringe. “I dunno,” he says, “A good pillow’s hard to find. I could be convinced to share though...?”

 

“Perfect,” Eliot says, pulling Quentin to the floor to lie against him. 

 

“Yeah,” says Quentin, “Perfect.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of Quentin's birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter where I realised that despite being Quentin's study of domesticity, I have actually been writing in Eliot's POV (probably because I find his voice easier). So-have some of Quentin's POV!
> 
> Also, I'm back from holiday and I'm typing on my computer again!! I missed it so much :)

Quentin wakes early. He can tell because the spring light hasn’t managed to penetrate the blinds yet, but it isn’t dark enough for it to still be night time.

 

Over the course of fifty years without electricity, gauging what time it is outside becomes second nature. As does waking up early. He stretches, curling his toes and luxuriating in the feel of clean, extremely expensive, sheets.

 

“Good morning,” says Eliot’s amused voice beside him.

 

Quentin opens his eyes and looks up at his boyfriend. His boyfriend: he can feel a goofy grin spread across his face at the thought.

 

“Good morning,” he replies, reaching up and starting to pull Eliot toward him.

 

“Mmm. Tempting,” Eliot says, submitting long enough to give him a long kiss, “But we have more important things to do this morning. Come through to the kitchen.”

 

And with that he gently pulls away and saunters out the room.

 

What the hell? More important?

 

Quentin sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He shivers. Although he would never leave New York (all his friends are here) it’s pretty cold in February. Maybe they could get a small apartment in like, San Francisco or something and commute during the winter months? Margo and Josh do it, and if it’s possible from a different realm then surely it should be possible from the other side of the country, with the generous use of portals.

 

(He’ll never do it. Their apartment is home.)

 

He pulls his thick robe and slides his feet into his fluffy, bright pink slippers (Penny thinks he’s funny, but they’re soft and warm so Quentin doesn’t mind), then pads into the kitchen. Eliot is standing by the stove, flipping pancakes.

 

“Sleeping Beauty arrives!” he says, smirking at him, before giving the pancake in his pan one last flip. It flies out of the pan and deposits itself on a plate in front of Quentin. Was Eliot using his telekinesis, or had he just literally spent hours perfecting that one, flashy move? Honestly, either of them seem equally plausible.

 

“What’s all this?” Quentin asks.

 

“You don’t remember?” says Eliot. “Oh dear. Well. Let me…enlighten you.”

 

He performs a few quick tuts and then dozens of little flames appear, arranging themselves around the pancake.

 

“Happy birthday, Q,” Eliot says.

 

Quentin feels a warmth in his chest (that has nothing to do with the flames in front of him and Jesus there much be like a hundred of them).

 

“I didn’t even realise,” he says.

 

“Well. You’ve had a lot on your mind. That’s what you have me for. Now,” Eliot brightens, and Quentin suspects that were Fen he would be bouncing in excitement at this point, “Blow out your candles and then it’s present time!”

 

Quentin laughs, and obediently leans forward and blows on the candles. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eliot quietly dispel the flames so it looks like he’s blown them all out in one breathe.

 

“Make a wish,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin closes his eyes. Wishes with all his might that this can go on forever. Because these last few weeks, living with Eliot, have been the happiest in his life. Happier in their own way than working on the Mosaic had been: he knew those years were finite, that everything could end at any moment once they solved it. Here he’s surrounded by his friends, his family, and Eliot.

 

He opens his eyes again, and Eliot has moved because he’s standing in front of him. And he kisses him, soft and gentle.

 

Eliot pulls away again, and then holds up a small, brightly wrapped parcel out to Quentin.

 

“This one is just from me,” he says, “The others are going to give you your presents at your party this evening.”

 

Quentin blinks. “Party?” he asks.

 

“Yeah. Margo’s organising it, so I thought that I’d better warn you in advance.”

 

Quentin looks down, and concentrates on unwrapping his present, a smile tugging at his mouth. He stops for a moment to admire the paper and the way that it’s been wrapped without using any tape, only continuing when Eliot makes an impatient gesture at him.

 

The paper falls away to reveal…

 

“Oh my god. Is that a San Diego Comic Con badge?”

 

It is! Proudly emblazed with the name Quillian Clearwater.

 

“They’re sold out,” Quentin says, dazed, “I know they are. And… don’t you have to pick up the badge at the convention centre itself?”

 

“I have connections,” Eliot says smugly, and when Quentin looks over at him he sees that Eliot has donned his own badge. Eliot sees him looking and laughs at him.

 

“Of course I’m going with you,” he says, “Can’t let my super-nerd get snatched up by someone else. In any case: don’t you think I’d make a fabulous Oberyn Martell?”

 

“You would,” Quentin agrees, “You really, really would.”

 

“Everyone else has a badge as well,” Eliot says, “We’re going as a group. And god help us, we’re coordinating costumes as well.”

 

He loves his friends.

 

“And in fact,” Eliot says, “That is only part one of your present. Come with me.”

 

Quentin lets himself be dragged to Eliot’s study.

 

“Ta-dah!” Eliot says, gesturing at the piles of fabric piled everywhere, “I’m handmaking all our costumes. Because in college, I might have been a nerdy theatre kid. I’m not bad at making a doublet if I do say so myself, and there’s no way I’m paying money for that cheap, synthetic crap. Polyester gives me a rash. Fen’s the one making all the armour though: that’s her gift.”

 

Eliot is still talking, saying something about all the potential characters Quentin could be or how he was going to dress Penny as a Wildling, but his words blur into one another. He throws himself at Eliot, hugging him tightly.

 

“What’s that for?” Eliot asks.

 

“I’m just. So happy.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets the badges

“Are you sure about this El?” Margo asks quietly, “You don’t have to do this. We can still go and rob another bank.”

 

“I don’t think so Bambi,” Eliot says, although he is tempted. Extremely so. “I’m fairly certain that it would only backfire on us. Anyways,” he continues, infusing his voice with forced levity, “If you recall, the last time I went on a bank heist I almost died.”

 

“Don’t joke about that, you dick!” Margo hisses.

 

“Too soon?” Eliot asks.

 

“Yes. El, I thought you were dead. For months. You owe me: you’re not allowed in any life or death situations for at least a decade.” Margo pauses. “Plus, I call dibs on Danaerys. Fire and blood is definitely a motto I can get behind.”

 

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Eliot says gravely Then he takes a deep breathe. Stares up at the building in front of him. And makes his slow, painful, way toward it.

 

WELCOME ATTENDEES OF THE 47THANNUAL MMMM CONFERENCE!!! a sign in front of them screams. Eliot and Margo exchange a pained look but follow the cheery signs to the building’s lobby.

 

“Hi, good morning!” says the cheerful girl manning the front desk. She’s around their own age and wearing a white T-shirt with MMMM emblazoned across the chest, “Are you here for the annual Mind Magic and Mystical Metaphysics conference?”

 

“Yes,” says Eliot.

 

“Name please?”

 

“Eliot Waugh.”

 

The girl’s eyes light up. “Mr Waugh!” she says in a tone akin to a squeal, “I am honoured to meet you! I couldn’t believe it when I was told you were speaking: we’ve never been able to communicate with anyone trapped in their mind for more than a few months before. And to be the host to an immortal being for so long without going crazy… You must have so insights into manipulating the psychic structures of the mind.”

 

Eliot gives a tight smile. He knows that the day is only going to get worse.

 

“Hey,” says Margo, reaching past him and scooping their conference passes, “Why not save the questions til the Q&A.”

 

The girl splutters apologies as Eliot and Margo walk past her, Margo snatching a couple of the complimentary gift bags as she goes.

 

“Fuck,” says Eliot lowly, “I forgot about the Q&A.”

 

As they make their way further toward the hall, Eliot realises that everyone they pass is staring at him, eyes wide and curious. He shivers: he’s always enjoyed being the centre of attention, but this feels more like being mentally dissected than anything. He checks his mental shields, and then draws them up higher. Most of the conference-goers are psychics: they’ll be able to tell that something is off with his mind, the Monster’s legacy, but they won’t be able to see his thoughts.

 

Margo can feel his discomfort, and glares at everyone in their path, projecting menace until they hurry out of her way.

 

“What losers,” she mutters.

 

“I agree,” Eliot says, “But they are incredibly rich and well-connected losers, so don’t alienate them now Bambi.”

 

He takes a deep breathe. Draws the remains of his mask around him like a shield.

 

“Well,” he says lightly, “Let’s get this show started!”

 

Later, when it’s all over and he’s finally escaped from the hours and hours of relentless questions (and at least five assurances that he’ll be listed as a co-author on someone’s paper) and stumbled back to his apartment he stops short at the doorway.

 

Because the lights are off, the space lit only by flickering candles, and Quentin is waiting for him next to their kitchen table.

 

“You’re back!” he says and he smiles. It’s a normal smile, one that Eliot sees every single day. More a lot of the time. And it makes him fells warm and loved and starts smoothing away the stress of the day.

 

“Have I forgotten a special occasion?” Eliot asks, gesturing toward the candles, the carefully set table, the single red rose in a crystal vase.

 

“No,” Quentin says, “Just- Margo called. She said that you’d had a stressful day today. So I thought it might be nice for us to have a er a nice meal that you wouldn’t have to cook. Only, I knew you probably wouldn’t want to go out this evening, especially if you’ve been walking around all day-” Quentin frowns disapprovingly, “So I thought I’d bring the fancy restaurant to you. Don’t worry!” he rushes to reassure him, “I didn’t cook. I just got takeaway from that fancy Italian place you like.”

 

“They don’t do takeaways,” Eliot says.

 

Quentin looks pleased with himself.

 

“I know. Now! Come and sit down and tell me how the wine I chose is completely wrong for these dishes.”

 

Eliot steps past over the threshold and comes home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor mendings. And not so minor ones.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

 

Eliot is not having a good day. His side aches, has been aching all day and he’s sick and tired of it. It’s been over a year since he was stabbed, and it still hasn’t healed and sometimes he’s afraid that it’s never going to get better, that he’s going to have to rely on his cane for the rest of his life.

 

He throws the offending item into the corner of their room and limps into the kitchen, scowling.

 

“Are you ok?” Quentin asks, looking up from the books strewn on the table. He has a giant mug of coffee (not hot chocolate, Quentin returned from the Underworld with a puzzling hatred of the stuff), three cans of red bull, and a bowl full of red-hot Doritos next to him, and he’s leaving accidental red marks all over his papers. He’s got to send in the first draft of his Master’s thesis by midnight that evening, and he really doesn’t have enough time to worry about Eliot. Not when it’s something that’s not going to change, might never change.

 

“Nothing,” he says shortly, turning to yank a wineglass out of the cupboard. As he reaches up, he can feel his trembling side give way and he slips, crashing to the floor, the glass shattering beside him.

 

“Shit!”

 

“Eliot!”

 

The two cries intermingle, and Quentin throws himself forward to kneel at Eliot’s side, ignoring the shards of glass littering the floor.

 

“Are you ok?” Quentin asks frantically, checking the back of Eliot’s head for blood.

 

“I’m fine. Nothing bruised but my pride.”

 

Bruised, tattered, torn, it has taken a beating in the last few weeks. Eliot feels tears of frustration building at the back of his eyes: he swallows and blinks rapidly to stop them falling.

 

Quentin draws him into a hug, clutching him desperately.

 

“Thank god,” he says.

 

“You shouldn’t be here Quentin,” Eliot says.

 

Quentin draws back, hurt.

 

“What?”

 

Eliot looks at him. Looks at the pain and confusion. He can’t say it.

 

“The glass. It’s broken. It could hurt you.”

 

Quentin looks confused.

 

“But I can fix it,” he says. And Eliot watches as the fragments of glass come together to form one smooth, unblemished object once again.

 

“See? Easy. You shouldn’t worry about it,” Quentin says gently, “Minor mending is um, is kind of my speciality. So.” He awkwardly does his best approximation of jazz hands, “Good as new!”

 

“But you never know if it’s going to break again,” Eliot says, “It’s just…so fragile. Pitiful.”

 

“Hey! Hey. That doesn’t matter. Because I’ll just keep fixing it.” Quentin places the wineglass on the floor beside him, giving it a gentle pat.

 

Eliot looks at him, looks at his beautiful eyes, filled with concern and love.

 

“Of course you will,” he sighs, “I shouldn’t have doubted it for a minute.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is unimpressed

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Eliot stares down at the bundle that Quentin has deposited on the kitchen table.

 

“Oh my god El,” Quentin says, rolling his eyes, “It’s a baby, not a bomb. It’s not like you haven’t got experience with them. I’ve got fifty years of memories that say otherwise.”

 

Eliot scowls. “That’s different. Teddy was your kid, and therefore perfect.”

 

Quentin grins, amused. “That’s not what you said when he threw up over your shirt. Twice.”

 

“It was a nice shirt!” Eliot protests, “Arielle made it for me.”

 

“The point stands.”

 

“Fine. I admit that Teddy wasn’t perfect-although he was pretty damn close. That doesn’t mean I want to spend the entire afternoon looking after a baby.”

 

Quentin looks down to hide his laughter, but Eliot sees it. He doesn’t comment though because Quentin laughing should be encouraged at every opportunity, even if he regrettably seems to be laughing at him.

 

“Fine,” he sighs, “I’m sure I can look after the hellspawn for an afternoon.”

 

Quentin immediately brightens and stands on his toes to give Eliot a peck on his cheek.

 

“I knew you’d do it!” he says, and Eliot gets the distinct impression that he’s been played. An impression that increases when Quentin stands and starts to gather his books.

 

“Q…?” Eliot asks.

 

“I have a meeting with my supervisor,” Quentin says, “The baby’s name is April, she was fed a couple of hours ago. There’s more formula in the bag under the table. Her parents are coming to pick her up at 7: I gave them your phone number in case of emergencies.”

 

Quentin produces a small, white card and set it on the table: “Here are all the emergency contact numbers. You’ve got this El! I’ll see you tomorrow, love you, bye!”

 

“Saying that you love me won’t distract me from this baby you’ve dumped on me!” Eliot yells after him. He’s lying of course: Eliot would do many things for Quentin’s love, all of them more onerous than looking after a baby for a few hours. He’s not going to tell Quentin that though. No need to give him more ammunition against him.

 

(He suspects that Quentin already knows anyway).

 

He looks down at the disruptive bundle.

 

“Well April,” he says, “Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

 

(Hours later, when Quentin returns from his meeting, he will claim that he walked in on Eliot dancing round the kitchen and singing ‘Be Our Guest’ into a wooden spoon, animating various plates with his telekinesis to dance around a delighted April. Eliot of course vehemently denies it.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang go to the midnight viewing of Avengers Endgame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chronologically takes place before the first chapter, so Todd has not yet produced the Fillory tv series and proved himself to the The Worst (tm) in Quentin's eyes.
> 
> PS I haven't see the film yet (I'm going tomorrow) so no spoilers in the comments please!

 

“Who invited Todd?” Eliot asks.

 

“That was me,” Josh says, “But in my defence, I didn’t know that he was such a big Marvel fan.”

 

The nine of them take a moment to stare at Todd. Who is dressed in a long red cloak and is wearing a truly atrocious blond wig. He looks up from where he was fiddling with his phone.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“Be nice,” Julia hisses, and then turning to Todd says, “Nothing! We were just saying how excited we are about the film.”

 

“Oh yeah, totally!” Todd says, his face lighting up, “Thor is my favourite character. He’s just so cool.”

 

“Who would have guessed,” Eliot mutters recoiling from Fen’s pointy elbow. “Ow,” he complains, rubbing his side, but quietly.

 

“I like Thor too,” Fen says blithely, ignoring Eliot’s dramatic groans, “But don’t you think that Widow is more baddass?”

 

The two of them launch into a discussion of their favourite Avengers, heads bent over Todd’s phone as they look up pictures online to prove their point.

 

“I can’t believe you invited him, Josh,” Margo says lowly.

 

“What was I meant to do?” Josh replies, “He was there when I was buying the tickets. Anyway, I like Todd. He’s like a younger, not as cool version of me.”

 

“He wishes,” Margo snorts.

 

They continue to bicker.

 

“Todd really isn’t that bad,” Quentin says, leaning into Eliot’s warmth and stealing a handful of his popcorn.

 

Eliot bats his hand away: “You have your own!” he objects, “Granted it’s the disgusting caramel stuff, but you were the one that bought it.”

 

“Maybe I knew that I could have the best of both worlds?” Quentin suggests, darting in for another handful of Eliot’s salted popcorn.

 

“I was wrong,” Eliot says, hugging his popcorn to his chest, “Todd isn’t the worst. You are.”

 

“You don’t mean that,” Quentin says. As if on cue, Todd gesticulates too wildly and spills his popcorn all down the back of the woman sitting in front of him. Watching him stutter apologies while somehow also whacking Julia in the face with his cape; Eliot concedes: “No I don’t. You are definitely not worse than Todd. But that’s only because he’s such a mess.”

 

The lights dim.

 

Quentin leans forward in his seat, rapt.

 

“You know it’s only the previews, right?” Eliot asks.

 

“Shhh!” Quentin says, flapping a hand at him.

 

Eliot shrugs. Leans back in his seat. And steals some of Quentin’s popcorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, (shameless plugging ahead) I've written a story for the Welters Challenge and I'd appreciate it if you took a moment to check it out? (and maybe vote when the times comes?) (No pressure). It's called Every Human Thought which is a Victor Hugo quote because I am a nerd, and it's about the rise and fall of the Library and the relationships that


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot reveals another deep, dark secret.

“It’s crap. I don’t know why I thought I could do this.”

 

Quentin’s hands are clenched in his hair so tightly that Eliot is afraid he’s going to start pulling it out by the root.

 

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, taking Quentin’s hands in one of his own, the other reaching up to smooth his hair, “Let’s stave off the inevitable baldness for as long as possible. Now, tell uncle Eliot what’s wrong.”

 

“Fuck you El,” Quentin says, but he also leans into his touch. Eliot guides him to the couch and pulls at him until Quentin’s head is pillowed on his lap. He continues to stroke his hair soothingly as he waits for Q to relax.

 

“It’s… you know I’m taking part in this Fillory fic exchange, right?”

 

Eliot makes an affirmative noise.

 

“And…it’s like a mixed book and tv thing because there aren’t enough book only fans who also write fic to have our own challenge, so we have to put up with these newbies whose only experience with Fillory has been Todd’s fucking tv series-”

 

“Fucking Todd,” Eliot agrees.

 

“-and I’m just, trying to get these words down on a page, but all I can think of is how stilted everything is. I mean, Martin’s a major character in this, and I can’t write about him discovering Fillory without thinking about what he was escaping from. And there’s no way that I can actually write about Plover’s being a fucking paedophile because I don’t any fucking proof and, like, all these people worship him. Hell, I worshipped him. Before I knew what he was.”

 

“Quentin,” Eliot says. “I- Look. I know how much Fillory means to you. Not the country, but the idea. It was your escape. And Plover ruined it for you, and I’m sorry. But-” Eliot swallows, “Hell Q, I don’t give a flying fuck whether your writing’s good, or in character, or whether the Todd groupies will like it or not. I care about why you’re writing the stories. And I know you. I know that you’re doing it because you love them. Yeah, ok, they’re not the same as they were when you were ten. Fillory is a lot more whimsical and fucked up than you expected. But that doesn’t matter. Because you’re writing what you love. Warts and all.”

 

“I er,” Eliot continues, “I don’t know if that made any sense. It sounded a lot better in my head. What I’m trying to say Q is- Death of the author and all that. Write what you need. And hey,” he continues, lightening the tone, “I’ve read your stories, and they’re pretty damn good.”

 

“Yeah right,” Quentin says, but he’s smiling.

 

“I’m going to tell you a deep dark secret now Quentin, that you have to swear never to tell anyone. Especially Margo. Do you understand?”

 

“I’m a little worried that I’m going to be digging up a corpse El.”

 

“Hah. No, I wish it was as simple as a murder. It’s worse.”

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“I used to write Angel/Spike fic.”

 

“…What?”

 

“My penname was AngelusSpikedSpike69.”

 

Quentin tilts his head to stare at Eliot.

 

“I was a gay, repressed fourteen-year-old in bugfuck Indiana. Of course I spent most of my time on the Internet.”

 

Quentin laughs, eyes crinkling.

 

“Well, I’m glad that my deep-seated emotional trauma is making you laugh,” Eliot sniffs.

 

Quentin reaches up and draws Eliot into a kiss. Drawing back slightly, he asks: “So wait, you didn’t think that Spike and Xander made more sense?”

 

(A few weeks later, documents are unearthed that implicate Christopher Plover in the murder of George and Beatrice Smith.

 

“Did you…?” Quentin asks Eliot.

 

He doesn’t reply, but he does look insufferably smug for the rest of the week.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Eliot's ff account was originally called AngelSpike69 but ThebanSacredBand pointed out that I should probably check if it was already in use. And alas it was. (She totally suggested the pen name I ended up using)  
> -I wrote a bit of this, then I showed ThebanSacredBand the Take on Me scene and made myself sad, so the fic went slightly emotion-y. Have a video of Ed Miliband (a UK politician)'s cover of the song to scour the unhappy memories away: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uD6Xo8bSIOg


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Fillorian Bake-off.

 

“Welcome everyone, to the Great Fillorian Bake-off!”

 

Josh is in his element, dressed in the Fillorian equivalent of chef’s whites and waving a whisk around like a madman.

 

Quentin leans in to whisper to Eliot: “Er, does anyone in Fillory actually know what a baking show is?”

 

“Shhh,” Eliot replies, “Don’t break his fragile ego. He has Margo for that.”

 

Neither of them has been allowed to be part of the judging panel. Josh has declared Quentin too awkward, and also unable to be trusted to give any constructive criticism other than “Erm. It was nice?”. As for Eliot, there’s only enough room for one stern judge with a fluffy centre, and that spot has already been claimed by Kady. Who incidentally is also a lot scarier than Eliot.

 

Instead Eliot has been put in charge of publicity (which admittedly he is extremely good at) and Quentin is being kept around to fix the inevitable broken crockery and sooth stressed contestants. Most of the gang is also hanging around to put out any fires, magical or mundane, although Josh had insisted: “It wouldn’t be necessary!” Yeah right.

 

They’re not getting paid per se, but they’re allowed first pick of the leftover food which both of them agree is a good deal: honestly Quentin is determined to feed Eliot anything that looks vaguely suspect just to see the betrayed look on his face. He’s anticipating many lectures about his lack of taste today: it’s going to be great.

 

“For our first challenge we’re going to ask you to bake an Earth delicacy: poptarts! They can be any flavour and be frosted with anything you like. The poptart should be popping with flavour and able to be easily carried in a saddlebag without spliiting-”

 

Eliot’s nose wrinkles. “Has Josh ever actually eaten a poptart before? While sober?”

 

“-although not a compulsory component, contestants will also be judged on the spells that they use to enhance and enrich their bakes.”

 

“This could be an amazing disaster,” Quentin says.

 

“Well, half of that statement is true,” says Eliot.

 

“You’re going to have to impress me, your Fresh Prince and Head Judge alongside three times winner of the under-tens regional baking championships Kady Orloff-Diaz.”

 

Josh pauses, and for the first time looks a little uncertain.

 

“We’re not liable for any death threats you might receive if either of us thinks your flavour combinations are stupid. Although we’ll try not to make them, _right Kady_?”

 

His fellow judge just scowls at the contestants. Quentin isn’t fooled though, he knows that Kady has been practising that look in front of a mirror for the last week. She’s going to make those suckers work for a handshake.

 

Around the tent, he can see the Fillorian contestants (who Eliot had rounded up through a combination of sweetly asking, ordering, and downright blackmailing) tremble. All except for Fen who gives a cheerful wave and goes back to sharpening her knife.

 

They’d explained that she wouldn’t really need one for a baking competition, but she had looked so sweetly puzzled that they’d soon given up and let her have the damn thing.

 

“I’m looking forward to watching her stab the first person who tries to steal her butter,” Eliot murmurs.

 

Quentin snorts, then looks around guiltily to see if anyone had heard him. Thankfully they hadn’t.

 

“You’re terrible,” he says.

 

“But you love me for it.”

 

“On you marks! Get set! Bake!”

 

The contestants start. Immediately, three spells go wrong, there are two oven fires and someone drops their entire glass container of flour.

 

Quentin and Eliot exchange a look.

 

“Well,” Eliot sighs as they lever themselves up, “Duty calls.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin have an unexpected encounter.

They’re having a coffee at the nearby hipster café, when Eliot suddenly shoves Quentin down in his seat, simultaneously moving his chair to the left so as to shield him from sight.

 

“Eliot, what the hell?” Quentin asks.

 

“Shhhh!” Eliot says. He reaches into his bag frantically and takes out his reading glasses, sliding them onto Quentin’s face.

 

“Eliot, I can’t see anything!” Quentin protests, “What’s going on?”

 

“Zelda and Harriet just walked in,” he whispers, “They’re not meant to know you’re still alive. Hopefully they won’t spot us, but just in case…”

 

Quentin blinks.

 

“You think that me wearing glasses is going to fool them?”

 

“Why not? It worked for Spiderman!”

 

“Superman. And I’m pretty sure that Harriet and Zelda are smarter than your average comic book character.”

 

“Oh fuck, they’re coming this way. Look… as un-Quentin like as possible.”

 

“Mr Waugh,” Zelda says, “How nice to see you again. I trust that you’re well?”

 

Eliot endeavours to look nonchalant. “As well as you could expect, given the circumstances,” he says. He doesn’t dare look at Quentin, or at Harriet whose eyes are flicking between Eliot and Quentin’s faces. She seems to be turning red for some reason. Eliot doesn’t know what’s happening with her and frankly doesn’t care.

 

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” Zelda says, voice level.

 

“This is my boyfriend,” Eliot says. A beat.

 

“And his name is…?” Zelda prompts.

 

“Quillian. Clearwater.”

 

Harriet, whose eyes have been glued to Eliot’s lips, gives up the fight and doubles over, wheezing slightly.

 

“I think your daughter might need some water,” Quentin says. He’s put an awful Southern accent and is squinting slightly to the left of the pair. Eliot kicks him under the table.

 

“QUillian Clearwater,” Zelda says flatly, “What an…unusual name.”

 

“His parents were pretty sadistic,” Eliot says, “You know darling Quillian once told me…ow!”

 

Quentin had kicked him this time.

 

“It’s an old family name,” Quentin says, still in that atrocious voice that’s doing the rounds from Hollywood cowboy to Gone With the Wind and back again.

 

“How interesting,” Zelda says, “You know, you look very familiar to someone I knew. A Quentin Coldwater. Mr Waugh clearly has a type.”

 

“I, yes. Definitely. Scoured Grindr looking for my darling here. But Quentin didn’t have glasses, obviously. And Quillian does.”

 

“Obviously,” Zelda agrees.

 

Harriet taps her mother on the shoulder and signs something to her, hands flying so quickly they’re almost a blur. Zelda snorts loudly, and then signs back.

 

“Well Mr Waugh, Mr Clearwater,” an imperceptible pause before Quentin’s fake last name, “It was nice running into you. Unfortunately, Harriet and I have just remembered an urgent appointment we have to get to.”

 

Harriet’s face is still red, and her shoulders are shaking.

 

“Good to meet you,” she manages to get out, clearly biting back laughter.

 

And then, finally, they turn and leave the café.

 

“Well,” says Eliot, “That could have gone worse.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot misunderstands

When Eliot gets in from school the apartment is suspiciously quiet. He carefully hangs his coat in the cupboard (unlike some people who just dump all their belongings on the floor, _Quentin_ ) and steps forward to investigate.

 

“Hello?” he calls, “Anybody home?”

 

Silence. Quentin doesn’t have class today, but maybe he was feeling social and had gone out for drinks with some of his Colombia friends. There wasn’t anything that said he had to spend every evening together, but they had just started their Game of Thrones re-watch marathon, and it would have been nice if Quentin had texted him or something. Joffrey was meant to die next episode, and Eliot had been looking forward to watching that little shit bite it.

 

He sighs and walks to the kitchen: at least the Chardonnay will be pleased to see him.

 

And in the kitchen doorway he stops short. Because every single surface is covered in candles and rose petals. It kind of looks like a florist met a Bath and Body shop and exploded. The best thing that can be said about it, artistically speaking, is that things were placed with great enthusiasm.

 

“What the fuck?” Eliot says. Has the ghost of cheesy rom-coms past invaded their apartment? He approaches he table warily, on the lookout for any stray glitter.

 

OPEN ME screams a plain white letter. Eliot picks it up carefully, turning it thoughtfully in his hands. It’s cheap, something that you’d pick up in a 50 pack at Walmart or Target. The writing is ornate, but bringing it closer to his face, Eliot can see the stencilled pencil marks and smudges where the writer had dragged their hand across it before it was completely dry.

 

Eliot opens it. What else is he meant to do? Inside is a typed card, reading only a time and an address. He recognises the street address as a nice French place that he’s been meaning to check out but hasn’t had the time to. It’s very upmarket, the kind of place you’re not allowed into if you’re not wearing a blazer, minimum.

 

7:30. He has half an hour to get ready, if he’s going. It’ll be cutting it close, but he can do it with the judicious use of magic.

 

He looks around at the cheesy (incredibly thoughtful) display currently taking over their kitchen. Well, there’s only one super nerd he knows who would do this. And who would be able to get through the wards without being fried to a crisp. But why?

 

Thirty minutes later, Eliot steps through a portal and into Gabriel Kreuther’s restaurant in the Grace Building. Scanning the room, he quickly sees Quentin, hair tied back neatly and wearing an elegant suit.

 

Quentin spots Eliot and brightens, waving him over enthusiastically. Eliot picks his way through the tables until he reaches Quentin’s side. Quentin who immediately stands up and pulls Eliot’s chair out for him. Eliot would be offended, that Quentin was only doing it because of his cane, but the look on his face… It isn’t pity. No, it’s something soft and fond.

 

“What’s all this about Quentin?” Eliot asks.

 

“It’s…I was going to talk about it after the meal,” Quentin says.

 

“Yeah, not happening Coldwater. Spill.”

 

Quentin blushes. Starts fiddling with his linen napkin.

 

“Umm, so,” he says, “We’ve been living together for three months now.”

 

“Oh,” says Eliot, something cold and fearful spearing his chest. Of course Quentin wants to move out. He was only meant to be staying with Eliot temporarily after all, as a stop-gap measure. Julia had said that he was the best choice when it came to hiding Quentin from the Library, and who was he to argue? But now that Zelda has given up on finding Quentin, now that he doesn’t need to lay low anymore… It’s normal that he wants to find his own place.

 

“And I was thinking. We haven’t really talked about anything. I mean, I know that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been living with you. And I think that you’ve been happy too, I mean as much as you can be with. Well. This.”

 

Quentin gestures to himself, smiling self-effacingly.

 

Eliot doesn’t notice because all he can hear is his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and all he can see is Quentin’s smile.

 

“What are you saying Q?” he asks hoarsely.

 

“I’m saying… I’m saying that we’ve basically been dating for the last three months. And that we haven’t really talked about it. So I- I wanted to ask you properly. Eliot Waugh, would you like to . Er. Would you like to go steady?”

 

“…you. Want to date me?”

 

“I mean, I kind of thought we already were. We live together for fuck’s sake. But, erm. I was talking to Alice today and she pointed out that if I wanted people to know how I was feeling I had to tell them. That I love them. I mean not Penny, he can just read my mind. Not that I love him! I don’t love Penny. I- oh god. Can I just start over?”

 

“Let me get this straight,” Eliot says slowly, “You love me? Even though I broke your heart?”

 

Quentin snorts. “I’ve known you for more than half a decade, Eliot. I know you. I know what your defence mechanisms. Yes, you hurt me. Badly. But…I nearly lost you. And there’s no way I’m going to let that happen again. You can run all you want El. But I’ll still be here.”

 

He frowns.

 

“Although, if you ever do something that stupid ever again, I have to warn you that Julia’s going to hunt you down and… I don’t even know what she’s going to do. She just trailed off ominously when I asked her. And Penny said he’s going to help her.”

 

“You’ve made friends with Penny now?”

 

“Hah. No. He just said that I was even more annoying when I was mopey. Only, less politely.”

 

“Well,” Eliot says, “We can’t have that. So I guess I’d better tell you-” he swallows, “I love you too.”

 

And Quentin beams at him, reaching over to clasp his hands.

 

“I know you do,” he says.

 

“And I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit of an idiot. But- I would happily live my life with you for another lifetime. For another hundred lifetimes.”

 

“Relationships aren’t perfect,” Quentin says, “We aren’t perfect. But…as long as you’re willing to work on it with me. That’s enough.”

 

Eliot laughs suddenly.

 

“I can’t believe we’ve become such a cliché,” he says.

 

“There has to be a reason they become clichés,” Quentin replies. “Er. Does that mean that your answer’s yes?”

 

“What, do you need me to give you my class ring or something?” Eliot asks, “Wait, actually…If we’re going cheesy, we might as well go all the way.”

 

He removes one of the rings from his fingers and slides it onto Quentin’s, waving his left hand and muttering a resizing spell until it fits perfectly.

 

“Quentin Coldwater,” he says, “Would you do me the honour of being my boyfriend? And roommate?”

 

“You ass!” says Quentin, “You hijacked my romantic moment. Hold on.”

 

He looks around for a moment, before stealing one of the silver teaspoons and whispering his own spell over it, melting and reshaping it until it becomes a silver ring. He slides it tenderly onto Eliot’s hand.

 

“There,” he says, “Now we match. And yes. Of course I’ll be your roommate. And boyfriend. We, er. We still need to finish our Game of Thrones marathon after all.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A violin catches Quentin's eye

It’s Quentin who notices the violin first. Of course it is. It’s displayed in a dusty window in a second-hand shop in the centre of Williamsburg. It’s not an antique exactly: it’s too old and battered to qualify. Maybe a musician’s first instrument, discarded for bigger and better things. Maybe a prized possession, lovingly kept for years and then sold when its owner died.

 

It catches Quentin’s eye immediately.

 

“El,” he says, stopping to stare at it, “Don’t you think that looks like your fiddle?”

 

Battered and covered in scratches, varnish peeling in places, it does look eerily like the instrument that Eliot had owned in Fillory.

 

“Holy shit,” Eliot says, “It really does.”

 

“We should go in,” Quentin says.

 

“What? No. There’s no way I’m going into a charity shop. And definitely not in fucking Williamsburg. We’re not hipsters, Quentin. We have standards.”

 

“Don’t you think this is fate? I mean what are the odds that a violin that just so happens to look like ours would turn up in a pawn shop!”

 

Eliot rolls his eyes. But he capitulates and follows Quentin into the dark interior.

 

There’s no one else in the shop, probably because it’s 3pm on a Wednesday afternoon and people have better things to do with their lives than hang around other people’s junk. Quentin though… Quentin is climbing into the window (knocking things over in the process and getting dust all over his black button-down) and retrieving the violin, cradling it in his tenderly in his arms.

 

“I think it’s still useable,” he says, “Like, the fundamental violininess of it is still there.”

 

“What does that even mean?” Eliot says.

 

Quentin shoves the instrument at him.

 

“It means shut up and play, you asshole,” he says.

 

And there’s a violin in his hands. Eliot had learnt how to play while they were working on the mosaic: he had spent years teaching himself how to tune that gods-bedamned instrument. Arielle had joked that the reason their vegetable garden grew so well was because he scared off all the birds whenever he practised. The early years especially…she wasn’t wrong.

 

It had been a joke at first. Something to pass the time. But Eliot had persevered. And eventually… eventually he was playing lullabies to Teddy in the evenings, and annoying Quentin by playing ‘Let it Go’ whenever they fought. One year, for his birthday, Eliot had played a 20-minute medley of Taylor Swift songs, as obnoxiously as possible. In his later years he even played the fiddle at his grandchildrens’ birthdays: they had all picked up their grandfather’s terrible taste in music.

 

It had started as a joke. But in a land without Spotify it had pretty much become a necessity in the end. It was the reason Teddy’s musical education had been so good.

 

(He still dreams about it sometimes, the strains of ‘Hey Jude’ echoing through the air as Quentin and Teddy, who had inherited his dad’s singing ability, enthusiastically joined in for the nah nahs.)

 

(And then… the things he doesn’t think about. Which are myriad. The things he doesn’t think about, looking out over the plot of land where they buried Arielle, Quentin in tears by his side. Little Teddy, too young to know what was going on but old enough to miss his mother. And the sound of the violin echoing out through the forest, saying everything that they never could.)

 

“I don’t know if I can,” Eliot says, memories racing through his brain as he traces the ragged strings. They look like they’re going to snap at any moment: they’ll definitely have to be replaced.

 

“It can’t be worse than your attempt at Justin Bieber,” Quentin says, “You mentally scarred our son with that one, El.”

 

“Hush,” Eliot says, “He deserved it.”

 

He picks at the strings thoughtfully. They’re out of tune: unsurprising. He adjust the pegs slightly, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds produced. They’re not bad, actually.

 

Finally, after a couple of minutes he deems it worthy. He raises the bow and draws it across the instrument. The sound… isn’t bad considering how neglected the violin is. And considering he doesn’t have any rosin. Lifting the violin to rest against his chin, he draws out the first chords of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance, staring directly into Quentin’s eyes. Quentin who just laughs at him.

 

“So you’re going to buy it, right?” he says eagerly.

 

Eliot thoughtfully plays a mournful e minor scale.

 

“We’ll see,” he says.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen gives a gift

Disappointing Fen is like disappointing a kitten. A small, perfectly formed kitten, chocolate eyes staring at you mournfully and tiny claws ready to extend at a moment’s notice.

 

“It’s just…” Quentin says, “I don’t think that…”

 

Fen turns her full attention to him.

 

“You don’t like it?” she asks, a tremble in her voice, “I know it’s not identical to the photos you showed me, but they were very impractical weapons. They wouldn’t be very good for fighting.”

 

“No!” Quentin says, waving his arms frantically, “No, I mean. It’s perfect.”

 

And it is.  Because the weapons lying on Fen’s bench are works of art. Quentin picks up his sword and swings it in a careful arc. It whistles through the air, something that Quentin wasn’t even sure that swords did outside of movies. The pommel is wrought silver, a wolf’s head snarling up at him so realistically that Quentin isn’t sure that Fen hasn’t done some sort of. Sword charm thing. The handle is no nonsense black leather, simply wrapped and easy to grip in his hand. God. It’s Longclaw. It’s actually Longclaw he’s holding in his hands. He can’t believe Fen’s made this. The decorations alone must have taken hours… And there are nine sets of weapons on the bench, one for each of them.

 

(Quentin’s afraid to look behind him, because he’s certain he’s spotted several sets of armour and he just can’t deal with the amount of effort Fen has put into this)

 

“Nice work Fen,” Eliot says approvingly, picking up his own spear. There’s a bronze serpent carefully worked into the wavy metal of the pointed head whose tail winds its way down the solid pole (and Quentin winces because even without the sharp bit that thing could give someone a concussion) until it blends in the dark ebony wood.

 

“Eliot!” Quentin hisses, “You know that we won’t be able to take them into the hall.”

 

“Quentin,” Eliot replies, his voice at its normal volume, “You forget that we’re magicians. We’ll just… portal our way directly in. Or make Penny bring us.”

 

“And the fact that we’ll be walking around with weapons that can literally kill people?”

 

Eliot snorts.

 

“So long as you don’t stab anyone, I think we’ll be fine,” he says, “It’s not like we’re bringing _Todd_ after all.”

 

“But what is someone, like, touches it and accidentally slices their hand?”

 

“Why Quentin,” Eliot says, “I thought I was the only one allowed to touch your sword.”

 

Quentin blushes. And rolls his eyes.

 

“They wouldn’t get hurt just from touching it Quentin,” Fen says, “I’d never hone them that much!”

 

Thank god for Fen, a voice of reason.

 

“That would thin the blade too much,” she continues blithely, “And then it’d get too fragile. Only testosterone-driven idiots would do that.”

 

Never mind.

 

Eliot settles a warm arm around Quentin’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his lips.

 

“Stop worrying,” he says.

 

“Well I’m sorry if I don’t want to get kicked out of comic con for accidentally maiming someone.”

 

“Oh!” Fen says, “No don’t worry. Eliot told me you’re all terrible at swordplay. Although I already knew that from Eliot. No-” she continues, ignoring Eliot’s spluttered protests, “I had these childproofed, look.”

 

She points at a small rune etched onto the hilt.

 

“Childproofed?” Quentin asks faintly.

 

“For those still learning,” Fen says, “The rune stops them from hurting anyone. Well, except bruises. But those are character-building. You chisel it off once they reach their tenth birthday.”

 

“Oh,” says Quentin, “That’s er. That’s good thinking Fen.”

 

Childproofing or not, he carefully sets down his sword before leaning Fen and giving her a hug. She smells of iron and smoke and orange blossom? And she immediately leans into his hug, squeezing him tightly back.

 

“Thank you for all the effort you’ve put into these,” he says, “You have no idea how much I appreciate it. It’s like, one of the best gifts ever.”

 

“Excuse me?” Eliot says behind him, voice amused.

 

“Shut up El,” Quentin says.

 

And Eliot laughs and moves around the bench to joins them, engulfing them both in his own hug.

 

“Technically,” he says, “It was my idea, so I’m claiming half the credit. Sorry Fen.”

 

Quentin rolls his eyes.

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he says, “Feel free to stab him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually 'cast' every single one of the main 9 as a game of thrones character. Quentin is Jon Snow. Eliot is Oberyn. The others might come up in a later chapter ;)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IKEA. Enough said.

“We need furniture,” Quentin says; slumping to the ground. Eliot looks up from where he’s studying paint samples, sat Ted Coldwater’s old couch, the one piece of furniture they owned.

 

“Did you just realise this…?” Eliot asks, smirking at him.

 

Quentin groans. “Look,” he says, “We moved in five days ago. Five days! And in that time the only thing that we’ve managed to do is set up the internet. I hate to say it El, but we need to go to IKEA.”

 

“No!” Eliot says immediately, outrage clearly writ on his face.

 

“Look,” Quentin says, “I know you’re totally into like, the aesthetics of the room. But let’s be real El: we need somewhere to sleep. We need actual plates and pans and shit so we don’t have to keep eating takeaway. Heck, we need lights so that you don’t keep tripping over the couch when you go to the bathroom at 3am.”

 

“That was once!” Eliot says, “And… I concede that you may have a point. But-” he shudders, “IKEA? Really?”

 

Quentin looks at him mournfully.

 

“El,” he says, “We don’t have a choice.”

 

Eliot looks deep into Quentin’s eyes and sees nothing but honesty. And despair. Lots of despair.

 

“Fine,” he says, “But a list of ground rules. We make a list of things we need before we go. We go straight to them, no browsing, no looking at cute couches, nothing. We buy the bare minimum because as soon as I find a reputable antiques dealer, we’re getting rid of the shitty IKEA furniture. No, and I can’t stress this enough, absolutely no paper lamps. And most importantly we don’t eat the meatballs.”

 

“Oh,” Quentin says, “I actually like-”

 

“No meatballs!” Eliot barks. And that’s that.

 

The next day, as they stare up at the imposing blue and yellow building, Eliot says in the tones of a man about to go to his doom: “It’s not too late to turn back. That futon’s really growing on me.”

 

“No,” says Quentin, although he does look troubled, “Absolutely not. There’s no way your side’s going to heal if you keep sleeping on the floor.”

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“In and out, like you said,” he says determinedly, “As quickly as possible. We go straight to the target, we don’t linger, and then we leave.”

 

And they enter.

 

Five hours later, meatballs sitting heavily in Eliot’s stomach and surreptitiously dragging two heavy shopping carts filled with brown boxes, several jaunty green plants perched on top, they finally exit. Both of them are pale, and they stare around the darkened parking lot in bewilderment.

 

“I thought we’d never escape,” Eliot says.

 

“We shouldn’t have left the path,” Quentin agrees, staring blankly at the dozen packets of Kafferep ginger thins that had somehow made their way into their cart.

 

“At least it’s over,” Eliot says, “We never have to go back again.”

 

Without even glancing around, he starts to form the portal that will bring them back to their apartment. The two of them drag the laden carts through the doorway and dump them into an intimidatingly large pile in the centre of the living room.

 

“Er, El?” Quentin says as the portal closes behind them with a POP, “We still have to put the furniture together.”

 

“FUCK!”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin and Alice talk. Prequel to chapter 15.

“You seem happy.”

 

Quentin smiles tentatively at Alice. It was weird for a bit when he came back from the dead: weird because they hadn’t really spoken about what they meant to each other. He…he loves Alice he does, but not romantically? At least not now. Because Alice is… Alice is amazing and talented and smart and they both deserve so much more than each other.

 

So yeah. Weirdness. Slowly, steadily, they’ve been redefining their relationship, making room for each other in their lives. Figuring out that they make better friends than anything else. And… that’s amazing. Because as a kid who grew up with exactly one (1) friend he still can’t quite believe that people like him.

 

“You do too,” he replies. And she does. Her eyes are bright and even dressed in the severe suits that are the de-facto Library uniform (although he hears that might be changing soon) she looks radiant. Like she’s found something that she’d forgotten, or never had in the first place.

 

She laughs and self-consciously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“I am,” she says, “The Library… It’s amazing. All of that knowledge. And I’m helping people with it. I can make actual change.” She pauses. “Do you know that people in Flint still couldn’t safely drink tap water? Like, there was actually still lead in their water Quentin. We-we fixed that. The Library. It wasn’t even hard: any practitioners could have done it. But no one cared. Magic: it’s more than just life and death and whimsy. We’ve just, lost track of that somewhere along the line.”

 

“That’s. That’s amazing Vix,” Quentin says, smiling softly, “All the good that you’re doing- I always knew that you were the real hero. All the way back in first year.”

 

“Well,” Alice laughs, “Technically we were first years until last week when Henry finally graduated us, so that’s not saying much.”

 

“Oh my god, I thought he was going to banish us from the grounds!” Quentin says, “Or like, not us alumni keys or something. Not that it would stop us.”

 

“His face when Eliot introduced you as his exchange Canadian boyfriend, Quillian Clearwater-”

 

They laugh but. Something becomes tense between them.

 

“I’m glad that you’re together, you know that right?” Alice says into the silence.

 

“Yeah,” Quentin says, “I know.” He swallows. “Alice, I know that I treated you-”

 

“Don’t,” Alice says, “Not now. Let’s just- not talk about it for a bit longer. Let me be happy that my friend’s living out the Millenial dream with his boyfriend, ok?”

 

Quentin can’t help the small smile that curls his lips when he hears her say that. Boyfriend. They’re boyfriends.

 

“It’s pretty great,” he says.

 

“I’m glad,” Alice repeats, firmly. She hesitates.

 

“Q,” she says, “You have talked to Eliot about the fact you’re dating, right?”

 

“Yeah, of course. I mean. We live together. For like a week we shared a toothbrush.”

 

“That’s disgusting,” Alice says flatly, “So. You haven’t actually sat down and talked about it. To each other. Using actual words.”

 

“No. But… do we need to? We know each other. We spent decades together in an alternate timeline.”

 

Alice rolls her eyes, “Yes, but neither of you are great at remembering the other isn’t psychic. Think about it.”

 

“I- Yeah. Ok.”

 

The conversation moves to Quentin’s thesis proposal, but he can’t help but turn the conversation around in his mind.

 

When he gets back that evening, back to a home that’s warm and full of love and Eliot mocking the flower’s that he impulsively picked up on the way back… Yeah. He’s pretty sure that they’re both on the same page. But it doesn’t hurt to be certain.

 

Anyway, he’s due a romantic gesture.

 

Quentin smiles, already thinking about all the glitter he can fit into an envelope. Yeah, he thinks, curling into Eliot’s warmth, this is going to be epic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, and left kudos! I'm having a lot of fun writing these :)  
> I just wanted to let everyone know that while I am going to continue to add ficlets to this as they come to me (I still have a list of potential chapters that is getting longer by the day) I am possibly not going to be updating every morning anymore (I miss my extra half hour of ignoring my alarm clock).

**Author's Note:**

> Probably a series of small, fluffy oneshots in no particular chronological order.  
> Feel free to prompt me in the comments if you want to see anything.
> 
> I now am also on Tumblr under the [same name](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com) .


End file.
